Queen Anne's Lace

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Annie nodded. This hadn’t been her problem, but she had listened when her mother and aunts and cousins talked. It was often hard to get a man to be careful—that is, to pull out—so if you didn’t want a baby, you had to take whatever precautions you could. Wild carrot seeds were only one alternative. There were parsley, gingerroot, tansy, pennyroyal leaves. And if you didn’t have those to hand, there were plenty of patent medicines that promised to help if you had missed your monthly. Some of them—like Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound or Madam LeRoy’s Regulative Pills—were usually available at Mr. Carter’s pharmacy. You had to be careful, of course, which went without saying, didn’t it? Some of the patent medicines might not be strong enough to be effective. Some of the plants were so strong that they could be dangerous. Women shared the information they needed to keep themselves safe.

  He was watching her. She felt her heart flutter. “Yes,” she said, after a moment. “Women do use them. After—” She took a breath. “Afterward.”

  “Ah,” he said. “As a contraceptive.”

  She nodded, thinking that she had never heard that word spoken aloud. And then, impulsively and quite honestly, she said, “I can’t believe that you and I are talking about this, Adam.” She was surprised that her voice sounded so light.

  “Why?” He frowned. “Do I frighten you?”

  “No, not you. It’s just . . . woman-talk, I suppose.” She had been about to say that it was husband-wife talk. She had shared her efforts to conceive with Douglas, who had listened and understood. But perhaps Delia simply didn’t feel easy about talking to Adam about such things. Or—Annie thought this more likely—she was deliberately concealing what she was doing. She didn’t want him to know.

  Adam gave her a thoughtful look, and the lines around his mouth softened. “Does it bother you? I’m sorry, Annie. Maybe we should talk about something else.”

  “No, it doesn’t bother me.” She looked away, hesitating. “I was the one who asked. I mean, I . . .” She twisted her fingers together, then unclasped them.

  He chuckled low in his throat. “You know, I used to envy Doug.” He put out a hand as if he were reaching for hers, then pulled it back and looked away. But he didn’t stop the words.

  “I envied his good fortune in having a wife who supported him all the way, in whatever he wanted to do. And I don’t think I ever heard you criticize him. You were always so . . . so loving.” His tone became regretful. “Not like Delia. My wife has never loved me the way you loved Doug. He was one lucky sonovagun.”

  Annie cleared her throat. Adam wasn’t acting drunk, but she was sure he wouldn’t be talking this way if the whiskey hadn’t loosened his tongue. This conversation was taking them into places they shouldn’t go. She thought of the moonlit nights, alone in her bed with her imaginings, and weighed the power of her desire against the weakness of her will. She knew she wanted him. She knew she should send him home right now, before this went any further.

  But she didn’t. She flexed her fingers, then picked up her cup and took a sip. She put it down again, carefully, and said, “I loved Douglas very much. He was my life, and I wanted his children. But he’s dead now, and I—”

  She raised her eyes to his and saw that he had read her naked glance and knew what she was about to say. He stopped her.

  “Don’t,” he said sharply, and she flinched. He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray and pushed his chair back. “I’m sorry, Annie.” He stood, not looking at her. “Thanks for the tea, but I shouldn’t have come. Not tonight, not the way I’m feeling. I’ll leave now. Tomorrow, I’ll get Tobias to help me, and we’ll cut up that tree and stack the wood to dry.”

  She felt a stab of disappointment, as sharp as a knife. She stood, too, tears welling in her eyes. It hurt to breathe and she felt light-headed.

  “No, please,” she heard herself say, and the words came as a surprise. She put out a hand toward him, and her wrapper fell open. The lamp flickered again, and the darkness seemed to gather around them like an embrace. “Please, Adam, don’t go. I—”

  But he didn’t let her finish her sentence. He was around the table in three steps, pulling her against him, holding her tight, fitting his mouth against hers in a kiss that surrounded her, encompassed her, filled her with a passion she had not felt since Douglas left her. She lifted her arms around his neck and arched against him, giving herself to his kiss, to him, without reservation. She would regret it later, she knew, but tonight she was helpless against her desires, and his. His hands were hard on her, all over her, rough, demanding. And then he was lifting her, carrying her to the bedroom. And in a moment he was naked beside her, over her. And then, with a low, deep moan, inside her.

  Afterward, Annie lay in his arms, her head in the hollow of his shoulder. The last years had been a desert. But it was raining again and she was home.

  Chapter Seven

  For many centuries and in many different cultures, family planning was the most important medicinal use of the seeds of Daucus carota (also called Queen Anne’s lace and wild carrot). The earliest written reference to this plant as a contraceptive can be found in the writings of Hippocrates in the fourth century BCE. In his authoritative book, Eve’s Herbs, A History of Contraception and Abortion in the West, John Riddle (a specialist in the history of pharmacology) writes that the seeds of Daucus carota were among the most effective herbal contraceptives readily available to women. According to Riddle, “The seeds, harvested in the fall, are a strong contraceptive if taken orally immediately after coitus.” The seeds have also been widely used to “provoke menstruation”—in other words, as an early-stage abortifacient.

  In an apparent paradox, the leaves and stems of the plant (which contain smaller concentrations of the active plant chemicals) have traditionally been used to enhance fertility. I could find no research on the subject, but some herbalists speculate that a lower dose, such as that in a tea, might make the lining of the uterus more receptive to implantation. This may explain why some suggest that the plant was originally named for St. Anne, who was said to have conceived the Virgin Mary when she was well past childbearing age. She is invoked as the patron saint of infertile women.

  “Anne’s Flower”

  China Bayles

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  McQuaid had gone to Lubbock and Caitie had stayed over at Karen’s, so I was alone in the house on Tuesday night, which made it a good time to start my column for the next week’s Enterprise garden page and catch up on some necessary housework. Bassets are wonderful dogs, but they shed constantly. Every corner in our house is home to a thriving colony of Winchester’s basset–fur bunnies. I’ve warned him that if he doesn’t hang on to his fur, he won’t have enough to keep him warm this winter, but he just keeps shedding.

  For the Enterprise, I had decided to write a column about Queen Anne’s lace, which was blooming along our lane. It’s an interesting plant with a long history of medicinal uses, and even some culinary uses. Jelly, for instance. In an old book, I found a recipe that looked good and copied it out. Maybe over the weekend, I’d find time to make a batch.

  But I only got about half finished with the column. Blackie called to say that he had returned from Lubbock and that the doctor had released Sheila. The baby seemed fine, and she and Rambo were both home. My mother called to ask if Caitie could spend a few days with her and Sam before school started, and Brian called to let me know that he and Casey were driving to Dallas to see Casey’s sister and take in a Rangers’ game. It was late by the time I got back to my work, and while I tried to stay with it, I kept nodding off. I finally gave it up and went to bed.

  I was tired enough to fall asleep right away, even with Winchester taking over McQuaid’s half of the bed. But I didn’t sleep well. It was another night of dark dreams that sent me searching through endless shadowy places for that carton of photographs. Finally, I understood (with the kind of crazy conviction
that sometimes comes in dreams) that the carton was under my bed. In my dream, I lifted the dust ruffle, bent over, and reached into the dark space to pull it out.

  But as I did, I saw that a woman in a long, white dress was lying on her back under my bed, one arm wrapped around the carton, humming. And for bonnie Annie Laurie, I’d lay me down and die. She turned her head toward me, and terrified as I was, I couldn’t look away. Her alabaster face was framed by long, loose auburn hair. Her eyes, deep-set and very dark, like holes burned into her face, were fixed on me. They seemed to hold me, draw me.

  She stopped humming. There was a moment’s silence as I stared at her, transfixed by fear. Then Please, she whispered, Please. Her voice was thin and high and her breath congealed in a puff of cold fog. I jerked back, but not fast enough. She put out an icy hand, its fingers as dry and cold as frozen bones, and seized my arm. Powerless to resist, I was being pulled under the bed and into her arms, while the bell on my shop door jingle-jangled wildly.

  I was saved by that bell—but it turned out to be the alarm clock. It was six thirty, the sheets were all sticky and twisted around me, and that damned Scottish melody was lodged in my head again, like an old vinyl record with a stuck needle. I had to turn on the radio to blot it out.

  When I went to put my sneakers on, I couldn’t find one of them. I settled for sandals. I suspected it had gotten kicked under the bed, and I couldn’t bring myself to lift up the dust ruffle and look.

  * * *

  • • •

  I fed the dog, the cat, and Caitie’s chickens, then nuked a breakfast burrito in the microwave and took it and my coffee with me. I don’t think I’ve ever been more glad to step out of the house and into the brightness of the early morning. The sunshine filtering through the trees seemed to make a cheerful mockery of the dark dreams of the night and that frightening figure under the bed.

  On my way to the shop, I stopped off at Sheila’s to see how she was—and was relieved that she seemed her normal self. That is, she was still in bed but she was already working on her laptop, going through some files that Connie had emailed her. There was a pot of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs on the bedside table and Rambo was stretched out on the floor.

  But her doctor was insisting that she stay home for the rest of the week, and Blackie had appointed himself as the Enforcer. “I’m sorry that McQuaid had to pick up my investigation in Lubbock,” he told me quietly, as he went with me to the door. “But I was afraid if I didn’t come back and make sure Sheila stayed home, she would be in uniform and at the police station before sunup this morning.”

  “You can’t keep a good woman down,” I said. “Oh, and speaking of keeping it down,” I added, “I left some bottles of ginger ale and a bag of peppermint tea on your kitchen counter yesterday. If nausea is still a problem for her, give them a try.”

  “Got it,” Blackie said. He frowned. “I worry about the baby, you know. And her, too, of course. Sheila’s not a twentysomething.”

  “That’s true,” I agreed. “But she’s in much better shape than your average twentysomething. I doubt if many of them could run her usual four miles before breakfast. I’m sure she’ll be fine—once she stops throwing up.” I paused. “Let me know if you need anything, Blackie. I’m on chicken duty tomorrow morning, but I’ll be glad to shop for you.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Chicken duty?”

  “Caitie’s chickens. Adams County Fair. The big poultry show starts tomorrow. Caitie is aiming for at least one blue ribbon.”

  “Oh, right.” He grinned. “Well, have fun.”

  “We will,” I replied. “Extra Crispy and Dixie Chick have had their baths and their pedicures, and they’re ready to strut their stuff.”

  “Atta girl.” Blackie rolled his eyes. “You are gonna knock ’em dead.”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  Little did we know.

  * * *

  • • •

  I love Thyme and Seasons first thing in the morning, when the shelves are tidy, the floor is nicely swept, the counter is neat, and the sweet morning light filters in through the east windows, casting a golden glow over the shop. Today, I was first to arrive and everything was blessedly quiet. Ruby and Lori hadn’t shown up yet, Cass’ kitchen was still dark, and Khat and I were the only creatures stirring.

  The night’s frightening dream lingered in my mind, but it had given me an idea. I would get the carton of photos out of the storeroom and bring it downstairs, where there was counter space and a better light. Between customers, I could sort and study the photos. If I got lucky, I might find something that would help us document the laces. There might be papers in the box. Maybe even a diary.

  A reasonable plan, but I hesitated. Perhaps it was the dream, but I stood at the foot of the stairs, reluctant to go up. I wasn’t terribly eager to open the storeroom door and step into the dark with only a naked bulb for light, which might burn out again and leave me groping in blackness. I might hear that ghostly humming and sense that someone, something else was with me, that I wasn’t alone.

  Funny thing. Only two days ago, that room had been just another large walk-in closet, full of piles of stuff that had to be sorted and disposed of so we could make room for more stuff. Now, it was like one of those eerie rooms in a Stephen King novel, a dark place full of speaking shadows, where inexplicable things happen, a place that exists well outside of everybody’s ordinary comfort zone.

  I thought of what Ruby and Christine had said about clothing being somehow invested with the emotional energy of the women who made it and wore it. Perhaps buildings, too, absorb the emotional energy of the people who live there. Maybe they hold energy in the same way a battery stores power, and release it under the right conditions, when somebody receptive comes along.

  I frowned. One trouble with that theory was that the “receptive” somebody ought to be Ruby Wilcox, not China Bayles. Ruby is the one who’s in touch with the Universe. I’m the skeptic, remember? I’m the realist, the pragmatist, the doubter who only believes in what she can touch, taste, smell, see, weigh, and measure. Why was I the one who had heard that humming? And why now? I’ve lived and worked in this building for years, and I’ve never seen a sign of anything out of the ordinary—until this week.

  By this time, I had talked myself out of the notion of going upstairs to get that carton. It could wait until somebody else arrived and we could go into the storeroom together. Having made this executive decision, I headed for the kitchen, where I fed Khat, brewed myself a cup of coffee, and snagged one of the carrot mini-muffins Cass had baked for today’s lunch. I popped it in the microwave for a few seconds, then, coffee and muffin in hand, I headed for the shop to set things up for the day.

  The first phone call of the morning came before I’d even finished my muffin. Kelly Sutherland, who is teaching wreath-making classes at the shop this fall, was phoning to check on the dates. “I want to put the classes in my email newsletter,” she said.

  “Hang on a sec, Kelly,” I said. Holding the phone in one hand and my coffee cup in the other, I turned to the bulletin board to check the list I had posted two days before under the attractive caption I’d made with red, yellow, and green magnetic letters: FALL CLASSES.

  But FALL CLASSES wasn’t what it said now. Now, the bright red letter F and two orange Ss were turned upside down and pushed off to one side. The other letters were arranged in two new words: ALL LACES.

  The family photograph that had been pinned to the board yesterday—the man and woman in the porch swing with a baby and a little girl—was still there, but it had been turned upside down and there were two sprigs of fresh lavender tucked behind it. And as I stood there, staring at the board, the bell over my door dinged gleefully. I was being laughed at.

  I stood stock-still, feeling as though playful fingers had just reached through the curtain between the world we know and the world we don’t
and messed up my hair. Was this a message of some kind? For me? After a moment, I muttered something unintelligible and turned the photo right side up. The bell gave one final ding, sort of like a hiccup, and stopped giggling.

  “I’m sorry,” Kelly said hesitantly, on the other end of the line. “I didn’t quite hear that. What did you say, China?”

  I cleared my throat and tried again. “Um, looks like we’re on for the first and third Saturdays in October, one to three in the afternoon. Are those dates still okay?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Kelly said. “I’ll put that in the newsletter. I’m hoping for a good enrollment.” She laughed lightly. “You want to know what I thought I heard, China?”

  I didn’t, but she told me anyway.

  “I thought you said, ‘The ghost did it.’ Isn’t that crazy?”

  I made my voice firm. “Yes. It is positively crazy. Why would I say a thing like that?”

  But that, of course, was what I had said. “The ghost did it.”

  Yes, the ghost. The ghost who hummed the Scottish folk tune in an empty room. The ghost who fetched a photo from the carton on the shelf and pinned it, not just once but twice—and with not just one but two sprigs of lavender—to the bulletin board. The ghost who rearranged the letters to announce ALL LACES and then laughed at me. My dream ghost. The ghost I didn’t believe in.

  The ghost did it.

  And at that thought, my lawyerly self jumped to her feet and shouted, Objection! I object, Your Honor! The statement assumes facts not in evidence, authentication is lacking and improper. Then added, for good measure, Vague, and a waste of the court’s time, too.

  My mouth tightened. My prosecutorial self had the more cogent argument, I was sure. Assumes facts not in evidence, very definitely. In fact, facts not in evidence is the very essence of ghosthood, is it not? If I were Her Honor, I would certainly sustain my objection.